


A little summer to his winter

by SunshineSea



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Choking, M/M, PWP, Rough Sex, Temperature Play, kinky near-death experiences, look i just love the idea of a black widow End agent, religious fervour, set against a smug prick who is just too good of a lay to kill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-03
Updated: 2019-10-03
Packaged: 2020-11-22 17:15:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20877821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunshineSea/pseuds/SunshineSea
Summary: "The End made itself clear in the flesh of a young man – taller, wider, all of himself pushed into pleasing shapes. He feels like winter walking when he loves, where the lovebites turn to frostbites and the tip-tap-clacking of his long, long nails on his phone screen sound afterward, deaf to their pleas of breakfast. In his younger youth he had wanted to be wanted. These days he only wants warmth."In which an agent of the Desolation meets an unnamed agent of the End.





	A little summer to his winter

The End made itself clear in the flesh of a young man – tall, wide, all of himself pushed into pleasing shapes. He feels like winter walking when he loves, where the lovebites turn to frostbites and the tip-tap-clacking of his long, long nails on his phone screen sound afterward, deaf to their pleas of breakfast. In his younger youth he had wanted to be wanted. These days he only wants warmth.

The ones he loves go sky-high with him, but when they come down again they do so like feathers. They reach the bedsheets and then they keep falling. He is there with them always, eyes transfixed, and he saps the last warmth of their breath before they succumb, and then he places them in an abandoned street somewhere. Their causes of death are always hypothermia. It feels warm afterwards; at least until he falls into a heavy and dreamless sleep.

He has known for a while that what he does isn’t natural, but… In a sense it never bothers him, because it is never him who makes the decisions. The End does. The End wants the chill to reach his lovers and bring them to a post-orgasmic shuddering that spirals into fogging breath and then nothing. Right? It wants these things from him. It feeds on it, like he feeds on warmth, so surely, by that logic…

But he is not mindless. And he does still feel that twinge of humanity when he sees the “missing” notices of people that died in his arms.

It’s another day, it’s another bar, and he is overdressed in his suit shirt. He has begun to see himself as thin ice; he cannot grasp anyone, but should they come out to him… And they do, many of them. A tall, thick girl with almost no hair buys him a drink. A man with glasses and a stutter asks where he’s from. He takes none of them. He waits. The night outside is frigid cold and he smothers himself with the warmth of the bar, waiting. Waiting.

The man who finally makes his ice crack is tall, thin, but with a smoothness to him that suggests an element of fitness. When he talks to the agent he leans in far too close and puts a hand on his thigh and the agent is about to tell him to fuck off, but when he whispers he can feel his breath on his cheek, and it is _scalding_. The stranger tells him his name is Russel, and that he can smell death on him for miles. He says he wouldn’t mind sleeping together, even if the thigh is cold as a corpse. The agent puts a hand over his and feels the heartbeat in his skin. He is full of fire, he says. He could show him a good time, he says. Has he ever had a man before? Like, _really _had him? And though the man is cold to his core he does still miss the heartache warmth pre-fear days, and he thinks he might like a little summer to his winter.   
They go together.

Russel is as forward in the bedroom as he was at the bar, but the man doesn’t mind. He is prepared for the careless kisses that leave his skin flushed for the first time in years, and he doesn’t mind when Russel pulls the dress shirt off him with enough force to tear a button, but when his victim leans in, chest against bare chest, and growls a “how do you like it? Or do people like you too numb to _like things _anymore?” the heat rises to a barely bearable spike. The man wants it, desperately. He wants to feel closer to his god. If Russel were to kill him with this heat then maybe that would be okay. It would be just. His lips quiver against Russel’s stubbly chin when he asks, timidly, if the man wouldn’t mind choking him.  
Russel laughs. “Oh, I can. Question is if _you _can. Do you breathe?”  
The man takes a breath, though he can’t tell if he did so before. Does it feel nice? There is no relief tied to the act other than the heat now coming into him. “Let’s try it,” he finally says, suddenly aware of the air that carries his words.  
“Safeword?” Russel asks. How nice.  
“No,” The End-touched answers. “If you manage to kill me I’ll probably come back. If not… Well, that means I was supposed to go.”  
He can tell this puts a damper on the mood, but Russel is still hard, so maybe he’s killed in bed before. Maybe they are similar in that regard.

His bed is the only part of the End-touched’s flat that is given any consideration. It’s huge and it’s soft and just for this fiery occasion it is adorned with red velvet sheets. The man throws himself backwards over the footboard and lands, happily, among the soft folds. Russel rummages through his bag and pulls out what looks like a bottle of- hand sanitizer? The man is both horrified and intrigued because he way Russel coats his fingers with it it looks like it’s going inside, which, even for an agent of the Desolation, seems like a bit much of a burning sensation. It isn’t until Russel has climbed into bed with him that the man realizes it’s lube. He brought his own travel-sized lube. In his bag. How presumptuous.  
He’s about to say this when the man on top of him with the burning eyes and scorching skin unceremoniously lifts the other man’s thigh with an unlubed hand, and with the other he feels his way, drawing a snail trail just below the ballsack, and-  
_Oh. _Oh fuck.   
The noise he makes is nothing like the practiced pornstar moans he’s fed his other victims, because it’s literally hammered out of him by Russel’s careless hand. It hurts just a little bit, but- that’s the charm of it, isn’t it? Agents of the End so rarely get to indulge in pain, and just the ghost-twinge of nerves thought long dead is enough to rattle his foundation. Can Russel _do _that? Can he- oh, oh _fuck.  
_His head falls back, involuntary noises spilling from somewhere in his stomach. There’s three fingers now and he’s too fast, too rough, but something about the noises makes his eyes blaze. The arrogant twit. He probably feels like such a big man now, getting to bed someone who- “_fuck_”_\- _is supposed to be numb- “_Fuck! Slow down, just a- ah-!_“ to the pleasures of the world-

“I’m not stupid,” Russel hisses in his ear, so hot now that the End agent’s breath is showing, “I know you types. Thinking you can trap me? I’m gonna be another tasty meal, huh?”  
“Yes!” the other man answers, partially just because he’s having a good time and “yes” is the kind of thing you yell when you’re having a good time, and also because making Russel angry means making Russel warmer, and the agent so desperately wants to be warm.  
“Yeah?” Russel says, removing his fingers with a slick noise to place his now-wet right hand on the other man’s thigh.  
“You know I’m gonna have to punish you for that?”  
“Oh, oh yes,” the reply comes staggered, from a bewildered agent who wishes he had something to hold on to right now.

When he slams into him as quick and careless as one might slam a door, the End-touched tries to curse. He really tries. But among the breathless bad words there’s so many involuntary good ones- words that drive the heat up, words that beg for it, to make it faster and harder and hurt just a little bit more. Russel feeds on the praise. He obeys, even if he convinces himself he’s completely in control. Another slam, another snap, and there is something- there-   
“_Holy shit_” he whispers, as the heat comes back into him, and it brings something new. His pleasure is interwoven with confusion. He’s never- He’s _never_-

“Choke me,” he gasps, desperate. Russel actually _laughs_, the smug bastard. They shift in a moment of unwanted respite as the agent wraps his legs around Russel’s hips, crossing the ankles behind his back, and with two freed hands Russel wraps one of them around the End-touched’s throat and squeezes.

  
In many ways, the sensation is exactly what he expected. There is no real pain. There is no rising panic or surge of adrenaline. No, what the man really wants was to feel closer to his god, and in that moment of perishable breath and violent pressure, he does. The ecstasy of near-death fills him with peace and, perhaps sensing the change in tone, Russel barges into him again.  
_There it is_. There it is again, that- that thing, the- it’s a _spike_, and it’s stronger now, bursting through his body from the bottom up. Russel can feel him tighten, see the wide-eyed exultation in his eyes, so he loosens his grip to hear the end of an absolutely embarrassing noise.   
“What’s that?” the man snarls, brimming with arrogance. “That do it for you?” and the agent tries to nod but his neck is too stiff.   
Neither of them understand it. Desolation and peaceful end, summer and winter, relentless heat cracking the window against a chilly morning. Russel fucks like he’s angry and it is _doing something_, something the other man has never felt, like- oh- _oh, yes, oh god yes, oh-_

Another spike, stronger, the agent feels like he’s losing his mind. There’s enough pain to tell him his body is still clinically alive, but spiritually, he is _soaring_. Every squeeze brings him a little bit closer to The End until he swears he can see its face, and he loves it, and he craves it, but then his partner knocks him back into place with his selfish and thunderous quest for pleasure, and it brings them both so much closer. He swears when he can breathe. Every time the spike makes him convulse Russel loosens his grip just enough to hear the noise. He is using it as fuel.   
Another thrust and they both realize it’s a race. Russel to his biological heaven, the agent to his beloved end. The man thinks he might win- of course he’s going to win, he is seeing the face of god- but then Russel loses what little inhibition he had left.   
He grasps the man beneath him with both hands. All his weight shifts to the agent’s throat and now the threat of death is not in the shape of asphyxiation but rather from his neck snapping. He’s a maniac! He’s- he’s so warm, and he’s so good at this, and he’s just the right strain of violent for them both, and he’s- he- scrambled thoughts, no brain left, it all feels leftover and left behind and he can _see it_, he can fucking see it, so close to the steel grey sky and frozen ground- he is ending, he is truly ending now, and even though there is no darkness to the edges of his vision he can still feel his lungs scream, and god- _god, please, please- _and it’s closer now, and he loves him so much, because he has never, never, he’s- oh fuck- oh, oh, _oh f-_

Russel doesn’t let go when he feels the body below him convulse for the last time. He is taken with his own task, sweat finally starting to drip from his nose in this relentless heat. He has always prided himself on being a good lay, but part of being a good lay is always getting your partner to where they need to be, and right now, that is a mistake. The End-touched shakes with an expression of religious fervour on his face and then he goes limp. Dead? No, not yet, if he could die he would have done so by now. And then it seeps from him.  
Russel lets go and rolls to his side, his cock slipping out with a squelch. He wants to take a second to rest, to orient himself, but the pyre he had been building in himself is no longer his own. The warmth in the room gathers and swirls and enters the End, still limp (but smiling now) on the bed. Russel has enough good sense to panic. He does not, however, have fuel leftover to make an escape.

He gets to a point of half-dress before collapsing. The End-touched turns his head, very slowly, and smiles at the arrogant man. The floorboards are icy again. The air is sapping, humid. He watches the man breathe heavy clouds of condensation into the rapidly cooling apartment, and, just for a moment, their eyes meet.  
Russel had tried to make him a sacrifice. Now Russel _was _the sacrifice. And still, and still…   
Is it selfish? To find such a wonderful, warming death for his master, and then keep it to himself? For all his devotion there is still a kernel of human in him, and that human just had the greatest lay of his life. And really, is the End not also equality? Is it not about celebrating the end of all things, big and small? Is Russel really worth more dead than he is alive? And the desolation is panting now, soft jelly eyeballs fogging over with intricate frostpatterns. Oh, but he is beautiful… Beautiful and stupid, with a once-in-a-lifetime kind of cock.

The End-touched sighs and Russel gasps as the heat returns in a solid wave. The man is too satisfied to feel his god’s disappointment, if there is any. His victim-no-more sits heavily on the floor.

“What…” he pants, clearly disoriented by rapid change in hot and cold, “What did you… Did, did I?”  
“Oh no,” the End-touched’s laugh is tinged with hoarseness.   
“You did not escape me. I let you go. I…” but how should he explain it? Defying his nature for a piece of really, really great ass? He doesn’t need to explain further because Russel laughs; first full of nervous energy at having escaped, and then a deep, belly-full laughter that makes the room _reek_ of pride and arrogance.  
“I’m that good, huh? God damn. No one is gonna believe me when I say I fucked the grim reaper into letting me go.”  
A resigned sigh. A little laugh. He wants to snuff the braggart out again, but alas, he has made his choice. Suppose he’s gonna have to make up for almost killing him. As if on cue Russel stands up, and his cock is still throbbing hard under his unzipped pants. The End agent eyes it.

“I won,” he croaks.   
Russel looks down at himself.  
“Yeah, whatever. That’s just how good I am. Wanna take care of this?”  
The other man rolls his eyes.  
“Is that going make you call me back?”  
“Call you- what, you want this to be a thing?”  
“If you don’t I might as well take you.”  
“Nah, nah, I think… Yeah, that’s good with me.”  
“Good. Get over here, then.”


End file.
